


Out (Have a Celebration)

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [70]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Closeted Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, Family Bonding, Fluff, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pride, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-04-24 08:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19169440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: The second time Fareeha asks Angela to come to Pride with her, she thinks about it longer, because she is planning to propose, soon, and a part of her worries that if she marries Fareeha whilst closeted, things will stay that way forever, and she does not want that to be the case, even if she does not feel ready to share their relationship with the world just yet.  She does not want to be out forherself, but she does want to be for Fareeha’s sake, because she is certain that it would make Fareeha happy, if she were.Or,A look at Angela and Fareeha's Pride experiences over the years.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sealfarts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealfarts/gifts), [binarylazarus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/binarylazarus/gifts).



> lmao so june 1 i was like 'im taking pride prompts' on twitter and i got a couple that i kinda mashed together. this one is mariel's "pm's first pride together! either already together or pre-relationship! maybe angela thinking about her sexuality and her relationship with fareeha, or its just cute and funny" along w a second anon who asked abt pride while closeted (which is in my experience not as fun as one might assume)
> 
> so anyway, angelas first pride w fareeha while still closeted and the first one where theyre out. it goes... okayly

As a surgeon, it is often important that Angela seem unflappable, unruffled by but anything and everything that happens around her, to reassure her patients and staff alike, and on the battlefield, as a combat medic, it would not do to seem too anxious, lest it erode her colleagues’ faith in her, and therefore affect her ability to do her job.  Similarly, at conferences she must seem certain of all that it is she says and does, lest her peers assume—wrongly—that they have any ground to stand on when they attempt to pick apart her methods, her results, her speculative applications.  Sometimes, it is even easy to seem so confident as she is meant to feel, such as when she is arguing for the rights of others, or against injustices, and the world around her falls out of focus and all she can feel is cold, hard fury, all she knows is the importance of getting her point across.

Given, therefore, the wide variety of situations in which Angela must be, or seem, brave and self-assured, it is hard for most people to imagine what she must be like out of her depth.  Strangers and even acquaintances tend to assume that she is confident always, that her behavior in the areas which are decidedly _her domain_ must carry over everywhere, and even the majority of her friends only know that she can be awkward or uncomfortable in unfamiliar situations.  Few people have even an inkling of how hard it can be for her, to be in a new situation, and the ways in which unfamiliar people, sights, and sounds exacerbate her preexisting anxieties.

(Why would they know?  She does not speak about it, for she is well aware that, even if she has always on some level been this way, struggled with this, the problem has been exacerbated as she has gotten older, as she has seen more violence and experienced more tragedy, and so she is afraid that if she gives any indication of the way things have become, it will be seen as weakness, or worse, a sign she should quit, should change fields, change jobs, live a safe, normal, quiet life—something she could never be happy doing.  Her ability to function in the normal world may seem a high price to pay, but she would be happy no other way, would only be consumed by guilt if she instead sat idly by while others did the sort of work she has dedicated her life to.  No one, therefore, can know, unless they find out for themselves, by which point most of them are close enough to her to understand that it would kill her, to do something else, even if it seems better on the surface.)

Fareeha ought to know, however, ought to be aware, by now, of how carefully Angela has adapted her environment to be as free of stimuli as possible, her living quarters virtually colorless, and absent of scented items or external sound.  Fareeha ought to know, because Angela explained it to her once, very apologetically, after having to cut a date short because, although she had no objection to Fareeha’s band of choice, the crowd at the show was too much for her to handle, too many people to keep track of all at once, too much darting in and out of her periphery, and she had not memorized, before they came, all possible avenues of escape.  Fareeha ought to know, because although Angela has danced around proper terminology, and diagnoses—having avoided, thus far, naming a condition even for herself, for fear of the implications of such—for the most part, Fareeha _seems_ to understand Angela’s needs, and acts accordingly, just as Angela does for her.

Yet, it is Fareeha who has invited her here, today, to Pride, a riot of sound, and smells, and bright colors, so many unfamiliar bodies pressed against hers, and with it all the fear of being seen, of being known, of being recognized.

Angela is not ashamed of who and what she is—that would be far too simple—but she does not think it is anyone’s business, either.  Already, she has had to give so much of herself to the public, has been forced to say her parents’ deaths _inspired_ her to become a doctor, has been forced to smile at the right times when people thank her for what she has done, even as they remind her of the worst things she has seen, the worst places she has been, and all she can think of is the smell of burning flesh, has been forced to hide all the parts of her which are not palatable for general consumption, because she is more a symbol than a person now, and she has to give people what they expect of her, always, cannot hurt others or herself be hurting, because then what hope would these strangers have? 

Who can fault her, then, for wanting to keep some parts of herself private, a secret, who can fault her for not wanting to become a symbol for trans people, too, lest she find herself forced to discuss dysphoria and transition and all her most painful insecurities.  No, she deserves to have some privacy, some choice in this. 

But here she is, anyway, because even if she is never, ever going to tell the general public that she is trans, she is also dating Fareeha, now, is not so straight as she once assumed, and she wants to make her girlfriend happy, even if that means being here.

(Of course, she is not ready to be out just yet, does not want for people to know _too_ much about her, while she is still figuring things out for herself.  Ostensibly, she is here today as an ‘ally,’ because she is not sure, yet, what she will say, if someone asks her identity, and is embarrassed, ashamed, anxious to admit that, even at her age, she does not know.  A problem with having been a prodigy: one gets so used to having all the answers, that not knowing oneself becomes a deeply shameful thing.)

It should be fine, it should, if she can just keep calm and focus on the things that are not changing, the familiar presence of Fareeha by her side, counting the number of bricks on the building across the street, the feeling of her own nails biting into her palm, but the fear of being recognized, of someone telling her she looks familiar, or waking up tomorrow to see her and Fareeha’s faces on a tabloid, it makes it impossible to relax, to forget the reality of the situation.  If it were just the crowd, or just being anxious, she might be fine, but both?  It is untenable.

When most people talk about feeling seen at Pride, they mean it in a good way, but Angela, despite the awareness that she is made mostly anonymous by the size of the crowd, cannot shake the feeling that she is watched, that there are eyes on the back of her neck, and she is used to that feeling meaning _danger_. 

Of course, there _is_ always danger, in open spaces like this, and in crowds.  For Talon or some other assassin to attack would be far too easy, she knows, and so it is hard to dismiss the anxiety she is feeling as baseless, even though she is well aware that it is not the true source of her discomfort, right now, is not truly rooted in something rational. 

So the anxiety grows, and it grows, and with it the feeling of being alone, of being a solitary figure in a riotous sea of sights and sounds and smells, all unfamiliar to her, and Fareeha is right beside her, yes, and if only they were not _seen_ here she could reach out, could hold her, could feel safe, knowing that Fareeha is here, too, and grounded, but—that would be a risk.  It would.   Anyone could notice them, then, and guess, albeit correctly, why it is that Angela is there, and she is not ready for that yet, is not ready to share with the world the only gentle, tender thing she has.

If she were stronger, she thinks, if she were better, or tried harder, everything could be fine.  Before she and Fareeha were together, she made it through situations like this on her own, did not have to reach out to someone for comfort, but now—now she just has to focus a little more, has to watch her breathing and feel her nails in her palm and keep her mind on stopping herself from reaching for Fareeha for comfort.  She cannot ruin this, she will not.

Just focus.  A breath in, a breath out, a breath in—something flies past her field of view, all rainbow colors, and she cannot see it, focus on it long enough to identify what it was or who threw it, but it was harmless, it must have been, Fareeha did not flinch—a breath out, a breath in, a breath out, a breath in, a breath out—someone jostles her from behind, apologizes, but she is pushed into Fareeha, who catches her, rights her gently, and she cannot move away fast enough, hopes her girlfriend is not hurt by the way she has all but recoiled from her touch—a breath in, a breath out, a breath in, a breath out, a breath in, a breath out, a breath in—

This time, it is a loud noise to her right, a bang, or a pop, she does not truly know what, but she hears it and thinks it is a gunshot, and knows she must not, cannot stay.

Quickly, she blurts something in Fareeha’s ear about needing a restroom, darts into the storefront behind them, a small café, and makes a beeline for the restroom.  Later, she will apologize for not having bought something first, will make up for it, but in the moment all she is aware of is that she _needs_ to be out of the crowd, needs to be alone, needs to be somewhere that no one will see her, just for a moment, just long enough to catch her breath.

As soon as the door to the—thankfully empty—restroom is closed behind her, she sinks to the floor, tips her head back against it, closes her eyes and tries, again, to catch her breath, properly this time, now that she is free of everything outside.  Being here is far from perfect; sounds from the café outside filter in, there is the persistent drip of the sink’s faucet, the smell of a public restroom, even a well maintained one.  She still feels trapped, feels like her skin is too tight on her body and that no breath she takes can be deep enough to fill her lungs, but at least it is quieter, here, at least she knows she is not being watched, at least she knows she is not panicking like this in public, where other people will surely notice, where Fareeha will have to worry about her, and take care of her.

(Never mind the fact that Fareeha wanted her here, asked her to come, Angela still worries about being a burden.  It was obvious, from the way Fareeha asked her, that this is something she looks forward to, every year, is something she thinks of as safe, and happy.  Far be it rom Angela to ruin things for her girlfriend, who only wanted to share in something she thinks of as a positive experience.  Fareeha asked her here, but she did not ask for Angela to be like this.)

She must spend too much time like that, eyes closed, head back, trying only to focus on the relative silence, to get her heartrate down and her breathing regular, because someone is knocking at the door, demanding to know if she is going to be much longer.  Half-aware, she calls out an apology and stands up, moves to the sink only long enough to splash at her face, in the hopes that it will help, deliberately avoids looking at herself in the mirror, lest she not like what it is she sees.

(Most days, she does, most days, she looks at herself and sees the woman she has worked hard to become, and maybe her face is not perfect, but it is good enough.  To feel beautiful would be nice, but it is enough for her to look at herself and think that yes, the ace that looks back at her belongs to a woman.  Today, she knows she would not see that, would notice all the traces of her past face she could not quite erase, would look at the set of her jaw and the shape of her brow and wonder how it is that anyone else does not notice these things, how she could possibly hope for anyone to look at her and know she is a woman.  It is irrational, she knows, for she passes well enough, has for years, and even if she did not, biology is not one’s destiny, it is perfectly fine to _not_ pass—for other people, if not for herself.  But the fear is still there, that people will see, and they will know, and she will be obligated to share something about herself which is still so very complicated and painful, even twenty years after transitioning, and being here, among people to whom her being public might _mean_ something is worse, because how could she justify her choice to them?  How could she not seem selfish?)

Without looking up, she leaves the room, does not make eye contact with the person who pushes past her, and she thinks that maybe—maybe if she keeps her head down, she can be okay, outside, can handle this, can focus on the laces of her boots, immobile, and nothing else around her.

That resolve lasts only until she reaches the door and she—a coward, to her own mind, if not to anyone else’s—turns and flees, again, to the back of the café.

The lighting is lower, there, and there is a seat built into the corner, free, from which she can watch the exit, if she feels she needs to.  Just a moment more, and then she will head back out, just a little longer to collect herself.  With any luck, Fareeha will not notice how long it has been.  She just needs a minute, just one.

Or two, or three.  It is not as quiet here as she thought, she can hear the sounds from the kitchen, and from outside, can smell different things cooking, and too many people are coming in and out, in and out for her to keep track.  Stupid of her to think that she could do this, could be here, stupid of her to think that she could pass herself off as an ally, and feel content with that, even knowing that most ‘allies’ are, in fact, closeted like herself, and knowing that everyone _else_ knows that too.  She thought that if she came, Fareeha would be happy, would know that Angela is not ashamed of their relationship—and she is not, really—would see that, even if Angela is not ready to be out herself, she supports Fareeha, and wants her to do what is best for herself.

Instead, she is not with Fareeha at all, is hiding, is fighting with herself about whether it would be better to worry Fareeha by disappearing, leaving quietly on her own and sending a message to meet her back on base at the end of the day, or to go out, again, and risk Fareeha seeing her like this, knowing just how unhappy and unsettled she is.  Either choice is a terrible one, for either way, she lets her girlfriend down.

Fareeha deserves better than this, deserves someone who can be there with her, someone who is out, and willing to interact with the world in the same way that Fareeha does, proud of who they are and whom they love.  When Fareeha loves someone, or something, she likes to show it off, wants the whole world to know just how great said thing or person is and Angela—Angela is denying her that, by being like this, is failing to allow her to do what would make her happiest.  It is not fair.  Fareeha, brave, patient, and kind, needs a partner who can show love to her in all the ways she would like to be able to, rather than Angela who is like this, not able even to stand too near to her at _Pride_ , of all places.

She should not keep thinking about this, should focus on something else, because it is only making things worse, to think about how she cannot possibly be so good for Fareeha as Fareeha is for her, and she is never going to calm down if she starts thinking about the inevitability of Fareeha leaving her for someone better or—more likely—her leaving Fareeha, because she knows her girlfriend needs more than she could hope to provide.

Focus on something else. 

The threads on her shorts are just large enough to see, if she holds the hem in her hands, and she can try to count them—there must be hundreds.  If she gets distracted by her thoughts, or her surroundings, she will just restart, will count again and again until she gets to the end, and when she can get there, then she will be calm enough to go outside, again, and will know that she can keep herself under control long enough to last out the rest of the parade.  Surely it cannot last too much longer.  Maybe she will worry Fareeha a little, with how long it takes her to return, but she can just excuse herself by saying that she was a bit hot, and stayed inside to cool off.  It sounds reasonable enough, certainly.

 _1,_ she starts, _2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…_

(She has done this before, and many times—not the lying, or the hiding, or the trying desperately t stop herself from having a panic attack in the back of a café, but counting threads—and it has helped in the past, has given her something too simple for her mind to cheat at, repetitive enough to be calming without ever overwhelming her.  Sooner or later, it will work, and she will be ready to return outside, for a bit, be able to grin and bear the rest of the parade, put on a brave face for Fareeha and pretend that everything is fine.  And it will be fine, it has to be.)

_…347, 348, 349, 350, 351, 352, 353…_

(She does not know what she expected, coming here, does not know what it is she thought she would accomplish.  This was bound to go poorly, is a combination of so many things she has trouble with on a good day, and has added into it the anxiety that surrounds being closeted, the stifling fear of discovery.  Yet she came, anyway, thought she would make Fareeha’s day better, and now is only going to have made it worse, if she cannot make herself relax.)

 _…767,_ reaches she for the third time, and hopes this time she will not get so distracted she has to start over, so near to the finish, hopes she can focus only on this, the motion and the counting and not an accounting of her emotions, _768, 769, 770, 771, 772, 773…_

“Angela?” A voice breaks her concentration at the 734th thread, Fareeha’s, a mixture of concern and relief, “There you are.”

“Fareeha,” she tries to stand, but Fareeha has already hurried to her side and is pushing her back down, a hand on her shoulder.  The motion is not hard enough to stop her, if she really wanted to keep moving, but she listens.  “I’m sorry, I was just…”

 _Just what?_   She cannot lie to Fareeha, now that she tries.  Fareeha must have seen her, before calling her name, must have known from her body language alone why it is she is here, right now; the recognition of the situation is plain enough on Fareeha’s face.

“Are you okay?” Fareeha asks, her, sliding in beside her, and Angela wants to pull away, or to push Fareeha away, anything so they are less conspicuous, so they seem less a couple and more simply a pair of friends.

“I’m—” she cannot force herself to say fine, even though she wants to, “—Sorry if I worried you.  I didn’t mean to be in here so long.”

“That isn’t an answer,” Fareeha’s tone is gentle enough, as is the hand that moves Angela’s face to look towards her, but the look in her eyes is firm, determined.

For a moment, Angela resists, tries not to say anything, because this is exactly what she did not want to do, worrying Fareeha, making her feel like it was a mistake, to extend the invitation.  “ _It’s too many people,_ ” says she, finally, a rushed whisper when she manages to choke out the words.  “I thought I’d be okay but—they can see us, Fareeha, what if they think we’re—or I’m—”

(That they would be correct does not matter, right now.)

“Shh,” Fareeha says, and tries to pull Angela closer, and when that does not work she extends a hand towards the rest of the café, “Look, no one notices us.  There’re far more interesting people to look at, right now, okay?  No one’s gonna think anything of it if you let me hold you for a moment.”

“Alright,” Angela acquiesces, does not like how much smaller than herself her voice sounds, and she is still anxious, but she cannot deny how much better it feels, to have Fareeha’s arms around her comfortingly, to be able to breathe in the familiar citrus scent of Fareeha’s shampoo, to feel the soft fabric of Fareeha’s skirt in her clenched fist.  Like this, with Fareeha holding her, she is shielded from view, can neither see nor be seen by the crowds outside, and it should be harder to breathe, with her face pressed up against Fareeha’s chest, but it is so, so much easier.

A minute passes, or two, or three—Angela cannot keep track of time accurately, like this, nor does she want to—and Fareeha speaks again, “You don’t have to move yet,” says she, “But we do have to make a decision.”

“Hmm?”  It is easiest not to speak, if she does not have to.

“The parade’s gonna end soon, so if we’re gonna go home, rather than to another event, we should probably leave before everyone else starts to disperse, because the crowd’s only going to get worse.”

That forces Angela back to the present, and quickly.  “You don’t have to—” she starts, sitting up fully, again, “I mean, if you want—I came here for you.  I don’t want to ruin your day by… by making you spend it worrying about me, or asking you to come home early.  And I know I already ruined things but—”

“Oh, Habibti,” Fareeha cuts her off, far more gently than she deserves, “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“I _did_ ,” Angela insists.

“You didn’t,” Fareeha is equally firm.  “You tried something you weren’t ready for, and that’s okay.  Maybe next year we can stay longer, but if you need to go home, now, we can do that.”

“Are you sure?” Fareeha would not lie to her, but still, she worries.

“I am,” Fareeha says, “And anyway, it’s only the first day.  If I want to come back tomorrow, or go to a party next weekend—you aren’t stopping me from doing that, okay?”

“Still,” Angela says, “I _am_ sorry.”

“And it’s still okay.  Just next time—tell me before you have to run off, alright?  You worried me.”

That is easy enough to agree to, and although Angela is not sure if she will be ready to try this again any time soon, the phrasing _next time_ leaves a warmth in her chest.  She has not ruined things; Fareeha is talking about next time, already, thinks that they will still be together a year from now.

And maybe she is right.  Maybe next time Angela _will_ be ready.

Next time does not come again for several years. 

The first time Fareeha asks, she says no, she is adamant that it will always be the answer—that she cannot, will not, be ready to do so again.  Not ever.  It is enough, for her, that the people they work with know, now, that she and Fareeha are together.  Who else needs to know?  Their friends and family are the only people entitled to that sort of information, the only people Angela can trust not to ask invasive questions, but to be patient and understanding of the time it takes for her to come to terms with it, to find the words to express herself and to feel comfortable talking about things.

(Or, she can trust most of them to do as much.  She understands, of course that Ana is only being protective of her daughter when she rather pointedly states, a few weeks after returning, that the last time she checked Angela did not do relationships—or women.  Still, it is an unbearably awkward conversation, and Angela feels terribly inadequate for having been unable to answer Ana’s questions about her intent, wants to say that she only wants for Fareeha to be happy, but does not know _how_ to express this, when Ana looks at her like that, so sharply.)

The second time Fareeha asks, she thinks about it longer, because she _is_ planning to propose, soon, and a part of her worries that if she marries Fareeha whilst closeted, things will stay that way forever, and she does not want that to be the case, really, even if she does not feel ready to share their relationship with the world just yet.  She does not want to be out for _herself_ , but she does want to be for Fareeha’s sake, because she is certain that it would make Fareeha happy, if she were.

(This is not to say, of course, that Fareeha is _unhappy_ , the way things are, but Angela knows that she is very much accustomed to being out, and to not hiding anything of herself.  They had an argument about it two months ago, when Fareeha mentioned being gay in an interview and Angela was angry with her for it.  Less than a day later, Angela regretted the argument, regretted that she tried to insist Fareeha not draw attention to them by letting other people know she is gay, because she knows that it is not her place to do so, and being anxious does not excuse that.  At least, afterwards, they were able to have a discussion about the way things were, to reach an understanding about what is fair of each of them to expect of one another, and Angela knows that Fareeha says, at least, she is content to wait to be out as a couple until Angela is ready.  Even if—as Angela makes clear is a possibility—that day never comes.)

The third time Fareeha asks, they are recently married, and Angela is trying to figure out the best way, the best time to come out, so she can do so without any questions, but also make it clear to the world that she and Fareeha are a couple, and that she is in no way ashamed of her wife.  Part of her is still afraid of coming out, of what it will mean, but she is also tired of being afraid that someone will find out, and really, truly, so very happy with her marriage to Fareeha that she feels she _needs_ to tell people.  Her wife is wonderful, her wife is beautiful, her wife is—not perfect, but near enough.  Pride is not the right place or right time for her to come out, because it does not allow her the sort of control over the narrative that she wants, but soon, soon, she knows that she will be ready to let everyone know just how much she loves Fareeha.

(The time comes a few months later, when she is giving an acceptance speech for some ridiculous lifetime achievement award.  Because the focus is her lifetime, and not on specific research, she does not mind drawing attention away from her work, for once, to thank her ‘darling wife, Fareeha, for all her support,’ having run the idea by said wife a few days prior, just to ensure that this is acceptable to her.  Given the nature of an acceptance speech, no one can ask her any questions until much later, and she is prepared, already with _an_ answer, if anyone asks about her sexuality.  No, she still is not quite certain how she ought to identify, and it does bother her, is a strange source of shame and hurt and confusion, still, but now, she can simply say _I have a wife,_ and if someone presses for more specifics, she can ask why it matters to them.  It should not.)

By the fourth time Fareeha asks, Angela gets the sense that she is almost expecting a no, but this time, they are out as a couple, and this time, Angela says _yes._ Part of her is still adjusting to being seen, publicly, as a couple, and crowded public spaces still make her _very_ uncomfortable, but she wants to try, again, to see if this time, things will go better, if not having the additional anxiety of being closeted hanging over her will make a difference.

She does not promise that things will go well, for she cannot, but Fareeha seems to think that it is more than enough that she is willing to try, is suddenly discussing coordinating outfits, and event schedules, and whether or not they ought to stay in Gibraltar, or go somewhere a little bigger.

 _Just Gibraltar, please,_ Angela says, and Fareeha seems to understand the unspoken part of that request, that crowds still will be a problem, and it is going to be enough for her to try this.

From there, Fareeha pivots to planning how best to accommodate for Angela’s needs, figures out the part of the route she thinks will be quietest, and where best to duck inside, for a bit, if she needs to get away from things.  Fareeha’s tactical skills certainly translate well into planning outings, but Angela finds the whole thing only more stressful, all the worrying about what might potentially go wrong, all the ways in which she could still ruin things for Fareeha.

(Despite the fact that Fareeha is excited by her simply being willing to try, and has said time and again that she is not disappointed in Angela in the slightest, the worry remains.  Fareeha is so _very_ excited to this, has been looking forward to it for years, and Angela knows that although Fareeha will not be disappointed in her, specifically, she still might be disappointed in the outcome of the day—or, worse, think that she could have prevented it if only she had planned better.  None of this is Fareeha’s fault, and so she should not be made to feel badly, if things go awry; that it is not Angela’s fault, either, does not occur to her.)

So they do not talk too much about their plans, in the final few days before Pride, at Angela’s insistence.  It is better for Angela’s anxiety levels, and hopefully keeps Fareeha from stressing herself too much, making this outing more into a mission, with goals to accomplish, and less something that they ought to be enjoying together.  The last thing Angela wants is for this to become in any way unenjoyable for Fareeha, who so seems to look forward to it every year.

As best she can, Angela tries not to worry Fareeha, not to draw her attention away from the excitement of the day.  When she cannot sleep the night before, she is careful not to wake her wife, and if her appetite is somewhat lacking over breakfast, she makes no indication of as much, chokes down the pastry that tastes like dust in her mouth.  She is fine—or she will be, once they get there, and there is no need to make Fareeha concerned, not today, of all days. 

(Pride is important to Fareeha for more than just the usual reasons.  When she was much younger, she managed to talk Ana into flying into Canada for a weekend solely to be there with Fareeha—and her father—for her first Pride, and it is a memory she clearly cherishes, one of the few times in her childhood when she had both of her parents with her in one place.  For her, it ties not only to community, but to family, and Angela does not want to sour that for her, wants her to know that as her wife, as _another_ member of her family, she will be here when Fareeha wants or needs her, always.)

At first, things go well enough.  This time, Angela knows better what to expect, and they are standing near a light post, where less people will jostle them.  Fareeha was careful, in choosing their location along the route, and it is quieter, here, than the place they were last time, if only slightly. 

As long as Angela is careful, as long as she does her best to focus on staying calm, things will be fine, they _will._

And they are, for a bit.  When the parade first starts to pass her, Angela is able to keep her attention on that, and not to worry too much.  There is a lot to be seen, and the atmosphere is nice, and bright, and Angela thinks everything will be well, and if her smile seems a bit forced in the picture Fareeha takes, if she stands near to her wife but does not _quite_ touch her—well, Angela is trying, at least, is here, and that has to count for something.

For the first hour or so, things are easy enough.  Yes, she is still worried about being seen, does not like the fact that other people will see her, and know far too much about her, but it is a small price to pay for her wife’s happiness—and Fareeha is so very, _very_ happy to be here, smile nearly as bright as the garish neon rainbow jumpsuit she bought for just this occasion. 

(Angela declined to match, and dressed more sensibly in black, with only the smallest of rainbow accents.  And unlike Fareeha, who has taken great care to paint a flag on her face, Angela has left her own cheeks blank—not because she was unwilling to do that much, but because she is not sure what she ought to paint.  Still uncertain as to what degree she finds women attractive beyond Fareeha, and not clear on whether she remains capable of attraction to men, it feels dishonest, to Angela, to try and claim any specific label, save for saying that she is trans—and that, she is not willing to do.  But a rainbow feels an incomplete picture, and so she does not paint one of those, either, thinks that the small details on her clothes and the fact that she is here will have to be enough, for now.  Fareeha has enough pride for the both of them, anyway.)

But, gradually, Angela begins to feel her focus slipping, finds her attention increasingly drawn from the parade itself and to the dizzying amount of information to process at every given moment.  Where is that person going— What is the flash in the corner of her eye— Where is that sound coming from, is there someone behind her, is she safe, is Fareeha—

Of course Fareeha is safe.  They both are, and she is being ridiculous.  All she needs to do is to calm down, to focus on the things around her which are not changing, that which is easier for her to process.

(Five things she sees: the informal barricade between those on the sidelines and the parade itself, nothing more than rainbow ribbons tied between parking meters, the person across the street in incredibly high waisted shorts with a trans flag across their shoulders, the bit of rainbow confetti caught in the hair of the person in front of her, the sign on the storefront across the way, quaint painted wood, and the pothole in the road which she thinks ought to be patched, as a matter of public safety.)

That should be easy enough, for she has enough practice, but she feels the dizziness preceding panic, and it is hard for her to focus on any one thing long enough to count it, long enough to ground herself.  There are a thousand things happening at once, here, far too many for her to ever catalogue, no matter how hard she tries, and with that comes the sense of _danger_ , again.

(Four things she hears: laughter, not pretty but guffawing, from a person to her right, clearly enjoying themself, music blaring far too loudly, some pop tune she does not recognize, a dog barking, somewhere not too far in the distance, deep but friendly, and a hundred voices all speaking at once, overlapping, different words and languages all swirling in her mind, one over the other and—)

When she is fighting, if she cannot spot the danger, it is a bad sign, means that her enemy has spotted _her,_ and she is vulnerable, might die.  Here, there is no danger to spot, but she feels it, cannot shake that sense or the way she is suddenly breathless, unable, it feels, to fill her lungs, even as she knows that the winded sensation is all in her head.

(Three things she feels: Fareeha’s arm bumping against hers every now and again, fabric whispering against her skin, the sun beating down on her head, hot—perhaps she ought to reapply sunscreen soon—and the soreness of the bottoms of her feet, her shoes for today a poor choice.)

Her heartrate is picking up, beating unnecessarily quickly for the place she is in, for the situation, and she tries to calm it, thinks she should have been able to, by now, if only she could focus just a little bit harder—but there are too many things, too many distractions, too many ways for danger to hide.

(Two things she smells: sweat, and strongly, for there are too many people outside for too long in this heat, and also someone’s cologne, too thick, strong in a way that makes her want to gag.)

If she could bring herself to reach out, Fareeha is standing right beside her, a comforting, grounding presence, but Angela does not want to burden her with this, to make her worry any more than she already does.  Today is supposed to be nice, to be un, to be happy, a place where they can feel accepted and loved.  Angela does not want to bring the mood down, she does not—

(One thing she tastes: blood in her mouth from biting her cheek too hard, this whole time, doing everything she can to focus on sensations and keep herself in the present.  It is not working.)

She feels lightheaded, and sick, wants to flee, to be anywhere but here, but last time, she promised Fareeha she would tell her, before running off, would give her some kind of warning, and so as much as she does not want to, she forces herself to speak, hates the way her voice breaks, “Fareeha?”  She tugs gently on a sleeve to ensure that she gets her wife’s attention, despite the noise of the crowd. 

“Yeah?” Fareeha’s response is casual, but when she looks down at Angela her face shifts very quickly to concern.

“Could we—ähm… Is there anywhere that…?”  She needs to just ask the question, she knows, but forming the words is difficult, suddenly.

“There’s a coffeeshop a half block away,” Fareeha says, and Angela is grateful, now, for all her planning, thinks to apologize for having said it was unnecessary, but she must take too long to form the words because Fareeha adds, “Unless you need to just go home?”

“Coffeshop’s fine,” Angela says, takes the hand Fareeha offers her and lets herself be pulled along to their destination, sits in the booth Fareeha points her to, takes the iced coffee she is offered, however many minutes later it is, motions by rote, not really thinking about much of anything, enjoying the blissful silence of being away from the crowd, and not having to think for herself in that moment. 

By this point, she almost feels human, again, like she can exist normally in a space with other people, can have a conversation.

“I’m sorry,” says she, once she is halfway through her coffee.

Fareeha looks up from her comm unit, upon which she had been typing rather quickly, “It’s okay,” says she, “We planned for this.  And, anyway, you seem to be doing better than last time.”

That is, Angela thinks, a rather low bar.  _Almost_ having a panic attack is certainly several steps above having one in a random public restroom, and then a sustained anxiety spiral in Fareeha’s arms afterwards, but her wife is right, this is definitely better than that.  “I am,” says she, and then, “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Fareeha says, very serious, “Looking out for your health is kind of bare minimum.”

Maybe it is, but, “I can still be thankful,” Angela takes another sip of her coffee—black, like she likes it, and puts a hand over Fareeha’s, “You’re always so conscientious of everyone and—” a loud buzz from the comm unit on the table, “—I’m lucky you’re in my life.  I love you.”

“I love you t—” another buzz, and another, “…too.  Sorry.”  Fareeha sheepishly silences her comm unit.

“You should probably check that.”  If it were a real emergency, Angela’s own comm unit would be buzzing, too, but it could still be important, must be if someone is trying so hard to get Fareeha’s attention.

“It’s just Lena,” Fareeha rolls her eyes, “I told her we might not be making dinner, and now she’s pouting.”

“We had dinner plans?”  It is news to Angela.

“You really were doing your best to tune out all my preparation, weren’t you?”  Fareeha sounds amused, and not angry.

“…That’s a distinct possibility,” Angela sounds as sheepish as she feels.

“I told the others we wanted to go to the parade alone since it’s our first as a married couple.  I didn’t figure you’d want to explain to them why, if you—well, if we ended up here.”  Angela appreciates her phrasing.  “Claiming you suddenly came down with food poisoning worked fine last time, but twice in a row is _pretty_ unbelievable, especially since it’s you.  But—”

“Especially since it’s me?”

“Baby, you stick your hand in other people’s guts for a living, when was the last time something made you throw up?” 

Fareeha has a point, there.  “Fair enough, I suppose.”

“Anyway,” Fareeha continues, “Jesse was bummed we wouldn’t be doing anything as a whole group, so I told him we’d try to meet everyone for dinner after the parade.  I did _not_ commit to going to any bars or parties.”

“Thank God.”  Bars or parties would be infinitely worse than a parade. 

Fareeha laughs a little, at that, “I didn’t figure you’d want to go to any of those.  Lots of loud noise and drinking, not a lot of personal space.”

(Once, Angela might not have minded so much, might have been okay with just drinking to get through it, but now that they are working towards becoming parents, she is trying to be more responsible about her alcohol consumption, and drink only socially rather than to avoid her emotions or to escape unpleasant situations.  For now, that means she is not drinking anything at all, and Fareeha knows that, has been very helpful in making the transition.)

“I would prefer to avoid that, yes.”  A moment’s pause for thought, “We can still go to dinner, though.  If it’s not somewhere too crowded, that is.”

“It shouldn’t be, I think.  It’s a bit out of the way.  You sure you’ll be good until then, though?”

Is she?  No, but she wants, at least, to try, thinks that this is going better than last time, and that if she speaks up sooner, if it starts to happen again, then things will be fine.

Her answer is more honest than she intends, mouth moving before her brain can quite catch up, “I’m not but—I don’t want you to miss out on seeing everyone else because of me.”

“I’m not missing out,” Fareeha says, “I’m at Pride with my _wife_.”  When she says wife, she sounds almost giddy, like she cannot believe her good fortune, and Angela wonders what it is she did to deserve a woman who loves her so very much, especially a woman so good as Fareeha is.

“If you’re certain…”

“I am,” Fareeha says, moves around the booth seat to be next to Angela, “We could go home right now, and I’d still be happy.  The fact that you agreed to come at all is more than enough.  I know it’s not—I know you’re here for me, and not for you, and it means a lot to me that you’re trying.  Because you really don’t have to, if it makes you uncomfortable.  But you did, and that—I’m just really lucky to have you in my life.”

They are married, so things like this should not make Angela blush, and yet she does, mumbles, “I’m the lucky one,” looking down at the nearly empty coffee in front of her.  “And I’d like to try,” she says with more confidence than she is truly feeling, “To stay longer.  I can’t promise it will go well, but…”

“You don’t have to promise anything,” Fareeha tells her, and presses a quick kiss to her temple.  On reflex, Angela flinches away, but no one can see them here, and it is safe, anyway.  They are not a secret any longer, and anyone who might happen upon them is likely here for Pride, too, in which case they will have no issue.  “Sorry,” Fareeha says—normally, they do not engage in public displays of affection, “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” says Angela, “ _I’m_ sorry.  It was just instinct, I didn’t mind.”

Silence, then, as Angela drains the last of her cup.

“Are you ready to go back outside?” asks she, as she stands to recycle the cup.

Fareeha stands, too, “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’m fine,” says she, and almost feels it, now.

“Then lead the way,” Fareeha tells her.

Fortunately, the parade is rather loud, and so Angela does _not_ get turned around on her way out of the door.  Neither she nor Fareeha is the best at navigating when not in the air, and it would not do to get lost, now, not when she is finally feeling halfway confident about this.  The spot they were standing in has been taken, but there is one a little further down the block, and they are both tall enough that their view is decent even from behind a few people.

This time, Angela tells herself, things will be fine.  They _will._

Of course, having that sort of resolve is not enough to change her natural response to the situation.  It is still loud, and bright, and chaotic, and she is still a bit tired from before, so it is not long before she finds herself starting to grow overwhelmed yet again.

Unlike last time, however, she is not trying to hide anything from Fareeha, so when she feels the rush of anxiety oncoming she presses her hand into her wife’s.  As gestures go, it is small enough, but she can feel the warmth of Fareeha’s hand, the steadiness of her presence, the way Fareeha’s fingers twine with hers and play with her wedding band, twirling it once, twice, as if to say _I’m here_.

“You okay?” Fareeha asks, looks down at Angela’s face and not at the way their hands are held—something they never do in public, not ever.

“I will be,” Angela says, and this time, it is true.  Fareeha is here for her, and if someone sees—that is fine.  Once, it might have made her anxious, to hold hands with her wife like this, but now it brings her comfort, in a way nothing else thus far has.

Let people look.  What they will see is this: a woman whose love for her wife makes her stronger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more pride prompts, this one from emilia, who said "I’m just putting in a formal request for Izzah at her first Pride as a baby. There is no rush lmao. :D" and for an anon who asked "Pharah + pride" w no further details LMAO
> 
> i was taking prompts [here](https://curiouscat.me/euhemeria) and tho pride related stuff is closed since im actually out of town now --> 10 july (and posting only drafts til then) u can always send other prompts there. no guarantees abt fills but eh
> 
> also i hc sam as deaf, & izzah is from another fic of mine, moment in time, which is uh... the first yr of life of fareeha and angelas kid. she doesnt exactly have a speaking role in anything bc shes a baby so u dont need to read it LMAO

At age 11, Fareeha is not entirely certain what Pride is, knows only that her father suggested that she might want to go.  She does not know the history, or what it stands for, has only the vaguest idea of what happened, nearly 100 years ago, that is still commemorated today.  Later, she will learn, and she will appreciate it all the more, but for now, what she knows is this: at the age she is now, her pre-teenage years, she has just suddenly become aware about how very _different_ she is from many of her peers, in a variety of ways, and her father has assured her that this is a place where she can go, and fit in, and feel as if she belongs.

Belonging somewhere would, she thinks, feel nice.  She is too Egyptian for her friends in Canada, too Canadian for the cousins she visits in Egypt, and too _everything_ for her schoolmates in Switzerland, where she lives with her mother during the school year.  No matter where she goes, she never quite feels at home, and increasingly she is aware that the fact that she is only interested in girls, and not boys, is another way in which she is going to stick out, probably for the rest of her life.

For an eleven year old, it is an incredibly overwhelming realization.  When she told her mother, after having learned the word, that she thought she was a lesbian, she was not warned about _this_ , about the fact that, now when she watches movies with her friends, she does not enjoy the romance plots the same way they do, or how when the girls in her year talk about boys, they all go quiet when she mentions the girl a year above them with the lovely curly hair and dark brown eyes, or the fact that, after she said this, she is no longer invited to stay the night with several of her friends.  It _sucks_ , and leaves her feeling anxious and lonely in a way she cannot put words to, not yet.

So, of course, she wants to go, _badly_ , wants her father to take her, so that she can feel, just for then, a little less alone, before she has to go back to playing with the kids in the neighborhood, who are increasingly weird around her, and their moms, who now call her a _tomboy_ far less affectionately than they used to.  But she does not just want to go with her father.  She loves him, she does, trusts him with everything, but a few days after she told her mom about liking girls, her mother came into her room, late in the evening, sat on the edge of the bed and told her, in a way that was not _quite_ a secret, but certainly not so confidently as her mother says so many things, nor so openly, that she herself also had crushes on women, sometimes

Fareeha was confused, at first, because she knows that her mother loves her father—despite their divorce—but her mother explained that sometimes, people like boys _and_ girls, and other people besides, and that, Fareeha thinks, is fine, even if she rather thinks boys are gross.  For some reason, her saying that made her mother laugh, and agree, but that was not the point, this is: If this is a place where people like her can feel happy, then maybe her mother can, too.

(She is young, then, still, but she is not blind.  Later, when she has the words for it, and the opportunity to discuss her childhood with her mother, she will recognize how very _sad_ Ana was in those days, how lonely, how isolated.  Overwatch may have been her family, but Egypt was her home, and she never was happy to have left it, and to have been surrounded by people so very different from herself, even ones she loves to this day.  There are other factors, too, the things she saw in the Crisis, the things she knew Overwatch was guilty of having done, which weighed on her mind, but at the time, at eleven years old, Fareeha sees only this, sadness, and thinks her mother must feel out of place too.  A child’s oversimplification, perhaps, but a well-meaning one.)

When she asks her father if her mother can come, too, she thinks, at first, from his face, that he will say no, will tell her that he planned this for the two of them, and that her mother is too far away, besides.  Indeed, he does say no—or, rather, tells her she should not ask her mother to fly to Canada just for one weekend.

“Then she could stay longer,” Fareeha says, “ _Pleeeeeeease._ ”  She repeats the sign for please a few times, for emphasis, so that he knows that if she said it aloud, it would be a whine.

“I don’t think,” he tells her, “That she’ll be able to get the time off.  Or that she’ll particularly _want_ to spend a week in the guest room.”

“Then I can sleep in your bed with you, and she can sleep in mine,” Fareeha says, as if it solves everything.  Indeed, she thinks she has.

“You’re getting too big to be sleeping in my bed,” he tells her, motions sharp definitive, “And—”

“I’m not any taller than last year!” says she, and it is true.  Somehow, in the last two years, she has gone from the tallest girl in her class to one of the shortest, all the others suddenly growing three inches, four, while she has seemingly stalled out.  It is very disappointing to her, for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that she is no longer the first one picked for teams in gym.

“That doesn’t matter,” he tells her, “Your mother is too tall for your bed, anyway.”

“Please, Dad,” Fareeha tries, one last time, “She likes girls, too.” 

(What Fareeha means is: my mother is also attracted to women, and lonely, and being somewhere that would accept that about her would probably make her happy, if it makes me happy.  What her father hears is: I need emotional support from someone like myself, and you, being my _father_ , rather than my mother, would not understand this.  Many years later, Fareeha will learn this, and laugh, because for all that she and her mother are alike, she knows that her father has always been the parent best equipped to meet her emotional needs.)

“Fine,” her father says, “You can ask her, but don’t expect her to say yes.”

Much to both Fareeha and Sam’s surprise, Ana does, in fact, say yes.

With her, too, it takes some wheedling, but ultimately Fareeha _is_ able to persuade her, in no small part because she mentions that she knows her mother is attracted to women, too, and so she should also be there.  Ana agrees, but says she is only staying for three days, and will be sleeping in a nearby hotel, not their house.  This is something of a disappointment, but Fareeha will take what she can get—she has not seen her parents on the same continent since she was eight years old.

(Ana, too, is persuaded because she mistakes Fareeha’s reasoning as a need for moral support.  She wonders why Sam is not good enough for Fareeha, given that he, too, is bi, before realizing that he may not have told her as much, and, not knowing how tactfully to ask such a question, she acquiesces.  Although she and Sam do not talk too often—because she is busy, and because she does not _want_ to talk about her work, or how she feels about it, does not want for him to worry over her, nor think she deserves as much—she knows that Fareeha’s trouble fitting in, lately, has persisted even amongst her old friends in Canada, and so she agrees to go.  Unlike the misunderstanding with her father, Fareeha does not find this funny, even two decades later, only thinks it sad, that the one thing she thought her mother was doing for herself was even then to make someone else happy.)

So it is that Fareeha and _both_ of her parents come to be at Vancouver Pride.  All three of them are nervous, although for very different reasons, but Fareeha most of all, not knowing, yet, what it is she ought to expect, and also more than a little concerned about the sort of glances her parents have been sending one another.  She does not know what she expected, having the both of them here, but it is, somehow, different. 

At least, unlike the divorced parents of some of the other kids she knows, her mom and dad do not argue, or at least not angrily, nor does either of them have a new boyfriend or girlfriend, and they do not treat her differently when the other parent is there.  But there is a sadness, there, when they look at one another, that makes Fareeha a little uncomfortable, an undercurrent of emotion she does not know, yet, how to deal with.

Her father suggested that she wear something with rainbows on it, but Fareeha did not have anything, so they had to run out to the store, last night, at eight, and try to find something that would work, because once he mentioned it, Fareeha decided she would feel quite out of place in the powder blue dress she _had_ set aside, which she was only going to wear because her mother bought it for her, and she thought it might make Ana happy, to see her in it.  So her _current_ outfit is not, perhaps, a perfect fit, shirt just a bit baggy on her, and when combined with her usual athletic shorts and sneakers, she hopes she does not look too much like a boy.

Not that she minds boys—she has plenty of friends who are boys, after all—but she knows that most of the people here are like her, are gay too, and although she knows she is too young to be dating by several years, according to both her mother and her father, if she _does_ see a pretty girl, she wants that girl to know that she is a girl, too.  Just because. 

Unfortunately, it seems there are not many girls around, or not girls her age, anyway, with most of the people here being at least in their late teens.  She tells herself that is fine—she is not sure if she _wants_ pretty girls to notice her yet, anyway, does not know what she would do if one tried to talk to her, and her dad would probably just find some way to embarrass her.  Not that anyone would know what he is saying, for he would sign whatever he said, but then she would have to translate, and—

Well, maybe she would not.  Her mother is here, too, and she can sign as well, is in the middle of a conversation with her father right as she is considering this.

At first, Fareeha worries that they are arguing, given the intensity of their expressions, the fact that when she looks over her mother is saying, “Very funny,” with a flat expression, but then her father laughs, and her mother does too, and Fareeha relaxes, realizes that, whatever is being said, it was only teasing.

“What?” asks she, both in sign and aloud, tapping her father’s shoulder to get his attention.

“Nothing,” her mother says, eyes rolling.

At the same time her father tells her, “I was only making an innocent suggestion.”

 _Right._ Fareeha can tell when it is a bad time to pry, because an adult just made some joke about grown-up stuff, and she knows that now is one such a time, can tell especially from the glances _both_ of her parents are sending in the direction of someone in the crowd.  Whom, Fareeha cannot see, because she is too short, cannot make out anything around the adult standing on either side of her, who pulled apart just enough that she could get to the barrier too and have a good view, but she does not particularly _care_ to see, either.  As much as Fareeha thinks she would like to marry a girl, someday, and as pretty as she finds some girls, the idea of either of her parents thinking someone is cute is _not_ something she wants to contemplate.

At least, she supposes, her parents are not fighting, are even _laughing_ together, some of the awkwardness gone, now.  “I’ll leave you to that, then,” says she, and something in her face must give away what she thinks it is, because her mother only laughs harder, at that.

“I know that expression,” her mother directs this to her father, looking his way as she says it, and then, to Fareeha, “What did you think we were talking about?”

“Mum, _please_ don’t make me say it.”  Bad enough that Fareeha’s parents know, now, that she knows what sex is—she thinks she might die if they want her to say the word in public, even if none of the people around them sign.

This only makes her parents laugh harder, for some reason, and Fareeha is really, suddenly regretting them being here.

“I only told her,” her father says, once he has stopped laughing quite so much, “That if she ever gets tired of the tattoo, she might consider this as a cover-up,” he gestures to the little flag her mother has painted on her own cheek, pink, purple, and blue, conveniently located so that no one will see her tattoo, and recognize her.  Fareeha suddenly feels very silly for what she previously thought, and even more embarrassed.

(In general, being eleven years old is a very embarrassing affair.  There are all sorts of new things to be insecure about that Fareeha discovers every day.  Incorrectly assuming her parents were joking about sex has to be one of the worst yet.)

“ _Usually_ ,” says she, emphasizing the word usually by signing it very large, “When adults tell me it’s nothing, I don’t want to know.”

“Good,” her father tells her, and her mother seems to agree, but before they can say anything _else_ to embarrass her, Fareeha hears the sound of the approaching parade, and is distracted by that for the next several hours, rarely glancing away from all the people passing by, save for when her mother distracts her long enough to take a water bottle and drink it, and when her father passes her a small flag he acquired from somewhere, for her to wave.

Save for those brief interruptions, Fareeha does not _want_ to look away.  Her father does not associate only with people like himself, and even if she wanted to, her mother could not, in Overwatch, works with a wide variety of people from the world over, but still, there are people here who are existing in ways it never occurred to Fareeha that she—or anyone—could be.  In particular, Fareeha’s eye is caught by a group of women on motorcycles, hair mostly cropped short, wearing leather, patches on their vests proudly proclaiming _dykes on bikes._ Fareeha has only heard the word said cruelly, before, and is thus not entirely sure if the meaning actually fits herself, but she sees them, and she hopes that one day she can be as cool as they are.

(There is a warmth in her chest, too, that she cannot place, will realize only later is _recognition_ , is the sudden realization that there are people like herself, in the world, lots of them, and that she can find herself among them, one day, when she is older, can find a community that accepts her desire to express herself as she pleases.  As much as Fareeha looks up to her mother, strong as she thinks Ana is, Fareeha wants to be strong in different ways, and in different ways from the other women in her life, too.  She wants, she thinks, to be like the women on the motorcycles, at least some days, and does not yet have the words to describe such a feeling of kinship, of community.  At least, being here, and seeing her parents seem perfectly pleased, when she sneaks a glance back at them while the motorcycles pass by, she knows that if that _is_ whom she grows up to be, her parents will not mind.)

There are so many sights, and sounds, and people all around her, and in another context it might be dizzying, all the bright colors and loud noises, but Fareeha thinks instead that this is perfect, and more than, is exactly the sort of place she wishes she could never leave.  All the people here are different from her, be it in one way, or a thousand ways, but for once, Fareeha does not feel as all as if she does not fit in, does not feel like the only one who stands out, not because of her accent, or her skin color, or the way she is dressed.  It is perfect, wonderful and perfect, fills her with a sort of warmth she has not known, until now.

And her parents are here, too, both of them, are here _with her_.  Maybe they are not together, like most people’s parents, but they are not fighting, either, or ignoring one another, seem to be laughing and joking amongst themselves, and with Fareeha, when she turns, too, to look back at them.  They are here for her, but they are also happy with one another, and all of them are doing this as if they were any other family—something Fareeha has rarely experienced in her life.

(Even when they were together, she rarely saw her parents at the same time, with her mother having spent so many years away fighting in the Omnic Crisis.  Of course, they made the most of the time when Ana was not in the field, tried their best to all go on outings together, but her mother was so often tired, then, exhausted in a way Fareeha has not seen her, since the fighting ended, and she did not particularly want to go out.   In a way, this is a little bit like making up for lost time, all those trips to the zoo and birthday parties a younger Fareeha did not get, and they are doing it all for _her_.)

It was a long way to fly from Canada, Fareeha knows, and perhaps unfair to ask of her mother, so she would have felt bad if it seemed as if Ana did not enjoy herself, or if things were terribly awkward for all of them.  Fortunately, that is not a concern, anymore, because her mother does seem to be enjoying herself, despite the fact that they are doing something her mother does not usually like to do, by going somewhere where she has no vantage point from which to observe the crowd. 

No, they are happy, all of them, and Fareeha thinks that the day could not possibly be better.  They are not a _normal_ family, but they are her family, and no matter whom she grows up to be, she knows, now, that her parents will support her, for that.  What more could any child ask for?

Only this: that her mother stop asking her to turn around so that she can take a picture of her.

“ _Muuuuuum,_ ” she whines this aloud, and inflects it as best she can in sign, “Why do you need so many pictures of me?  I wanna watch the parade.”

“You only go to Pride for the first time once, dear,” her mother tells her, not lowering her camera in the slightest.  “You’ll understand if you ever have a child.”

(The if, Fareeha is thankful for.  She likes babies, and used to think she would want one someday, but right now, any thought of the _responsibility_ that comes with children, and having to take care of them, is very, very unappealing.  So maybe she will not have one, after all.  It is good to know that her mother does not seem to expect a child from her, at least, and she can make the decision for herself.)

“But you have to have a hundred pictures by now!  Besides, I’m not gonna want to remember _me_.  I know what I look like!”

What, instead, Fareeha hopes to remember is the feeling of being here, of knowing that for once she fits in, and that her parents are happy to see her here.  That is not something so easily caught on camera.

A tap on the shoulder from her father draws her attention towards him, “You won’t always look the same,” he tells her, “Humor us.”

“Neither will either of you!” Fareeha says, and then realizes, suddenly, how she can win this.  Her father _hates_ posing for pictures, she knows, so if she insists on this, then she can probably get him on her side, and not have to worry about her mother bothering her for the rest of the day.

“Fareeha…” her mother says, but nothing else, a warning.

“I’m just saying,” says she, “That if _I_ had a kid, I’d want a picture with them.”  This is not necessarily true—from the pictures Fareeha has seen of _herself_ as a child of about three smiling, children do not pose well for pictures.

Much to her surprise, and chagrin, before her mother can protest further, her father says, “Alright.  _One_ picture.” 

 _Darn it_ , Fareeha thinks, because if he has agreed to this, then she _really_ cannot convince her mother to take fewer pictures.  But what can she do, other than let her parents squeeze past her, to the barrier, and smile when they bend down to take the picture?  She _is_ happy to be here with them, after all, and her father is doing something nice for her, by allowing her to take this picture at all. 

For her, he is doing something that makes him uncomfortable, and for her, her mother came all this way, and they love her, they do.  No matter what.  In that moment, she is sure of it.

A flash, and then there is the picture, for her to see.  It is a good one, of all three of them, and they all look happy to be around one another, despite the fact that they have rarely ever spent time as a family.  In it, the smile on Fareeha’s face is bright, and genuine.

One day, she thinks, when—if—she has a family of her own, she will take them to Pride too. 

To say that Fareeha was very excited by the prospect of taking Izzah to Pride for the first time would be an understatement.  The idea of doing so, of guaranteeing from the first that her daughter will know that she is loved unconditionally is of vital importance to Fareeha.  Too often, once she decided that she wanted to enlist, she was made to feel by her mother that she was a disappointment, that her achievements did not matter, that she was doing the _wrong_ things, and that her mother would not, could not be proud of her.  Izzah will never feel this way, not if Fareeha can help it, and Pride—one of the few times her whole family was together, and she believed, truly, that no matter what she did in life, her parents would love her, both of them, would always care for her—is an important part of ensuring that, even if taking her baby so young is purely symbolic, and not something Izzah could ever possibly remember.

(Of course, Fareeha knows now that her mother never stopped loving her, never stopped being proud of her, even when they were not talking, and that her feeling on that day, years ago, was correct, but it does not mean that it did not _seem_ , for a decade and a half of her life, that her mother would prefer that Fareeha were someone else.  Even if Ana’s love was unconditional, Fareeha thinks she can do better, with her own daughter, ensure that Izzah always _believes_ that to be the case.)

Technically, Izzah’s first Pride is her second alive, but Angela was _very strongly_ against the idea of taking a one month old Izzah out in public, particularly outdoors for long periods of time, or having her in a crowd.  Fareeha does not blame her wife for being concerned, knows that Angela being so anxious is only her way of showing she cares about their daughter, and forgives it, too, because she is beginning to loosen up, now, to worry less, and listens when Fareeha tells her that she is being unreasonable. 

Still, they do have quite the discussion about what taking Izzah will entail, for how long it will be appropriate for them to stay, what things they need to bring, how they will ensure she is safe—although, personally, Fareeha feels there is nowhere safer—and her needs taken care of, before Angela ultimately agrees that Izzah can come with them.  What is important is, of course, that Izzah _is_ allowed to go with them, that Angela does agree it is in her best interest to be there, and that she knows that her worries were mostly _over_ concern, rather than appropriate level of caution.  By this point, she and Fareeha have had several such conversations, but they always reach a resolution, and they ensure that her mother’s anxiety does not impact her ability to experience life.

(Angela will not be like Ana, Fareeha knows, will not hurt her daughter for the sake of protecting her, or attempting to, will not limit Izzah’s life or her choices because she worries—even if she will, perhaps wish she could.  After seeing what Ana’s actions did to her relationship with Fareeha, the ways in which it hurt her, further damaged her already fragmented sense of identity and belonging, made her question what it was to be an _Amari_ at all, Fareeha is confident that Angela will not follow in the same path.  In fact, she thinks that, although her wife would never say as much, Angela still privately harbors a grudge towards Ana because of what her decisions did to Fareeha, and is rather afraid of falling into the same patter, although Fareeha herself would never allow such to come to pass.  Izzah’s life will be better than either of their own.)

At thirteen months old, Izzah is old enough to be outside, can wear sunscreen now—thankfully, given that Angela must have used an entire bottle on her already, and is currently reapplying more—and regulate her own body temperature well enough to handle the beginning of the summer heat.  They also know, now, that Izzah is deaf, like her grandfather, and the sounds from the parade will not disturb her, if she needs to nap, will not be inescapable and overwhelming for her, the same way that they sometimes are for her mother.  If the crowd, or the new sights, overwhelm her, they can put her in her stroller, and pull up the cover, and she will be well, but that probably will not be a problem, as Izzah adores people, and is very drawn to bright colors.  Angela voices concern about overstimulating her, about the unfamiliarity of the situation leading to distress, but for now, that is not a matter of concern.

In fact, just as Fareeha predicted, Izzah is tolerating the crowd far better than Angela, seems excited by it, if anything, squealing in laughter at all the funny faces strangers have made at her in order to try and coax a smile from her—not a difficult task, as she is a very cheery baby, and quite the little ham.  From where Izzah is, strapped to her chest, Fareeha cannot see her face clearly, but she knows Izzah’s body language by now well enough to know that she is enjoying herself very much, is not at all stressed, or tired, or grumpy, or restless, or uncomfortable in any other way.  She seems to be enjoying herself very much, enthusiastically pointing at people and objects and signing “That,” each time she spots something new, her way of asking what something is.

Well, _asking_ things is a skill Izzah has yet to master.  Everything is a demand with her, right now, but Fareeha does not think it is such a bad thing, yet., thinks that both her own and Angela’s stubbornness and, yes, demanding nature has served them well.  She does not want to raise a child who is overly concerned with _pleasing_ anyone, who would sacrifice her own comfort and happiness for the sake of what others would prefer her to do.  Still, in a few months, however, they will work on her manners.  One can know what they want without being rude.

For now, though, her curiosity is not only tolerated but encouraged, with Angela attempting to answer each of her questions, quickly as possible, paying less attention to the crowd and more to her conversation with their daughter.  That, too, is nice, because it means that Angela is worrying less than she might usually, is focused not on how overwhelming the rest of the activity around them is, but on something familiar, their child.  And, for more sentimental reasons, Fareeha loves to watch the two of them interact, how seriously they seem to take these discussions with one another.  To look at Angela, one would think she was imparting vital life lessons to their daughter and not repeating, for perhaps the tenth time, that not every animal with four legs is a _cat._

(Sometimes, when she watches Angela and Izzah together, her feelings are overwhelming to her, a sort of happiness and wonder, that this is what her life has become, after all.  Having a family of her own is something Fareeha has wanted for a long time, now.  At first, because her own family was so important to her, and then, after her falling out with her mother, to prove that she could do _better_ , to heal some of the pain of her own teenage years and young adulthood by coming to associate mothers and motherhood with something else.  When she and Angela became a couple, a serious one, she mostly gave up on that idea, thinking that the two of them never would settle down, and now—now they have, although by the time Fareeha convinced Angela to let her have one baby before they adopted another child, her reasons for wanting a family had changed again.)

“That,” Izzah demands, again.

“Motorcycle,” Angela signs back, hands held out before her as if she were gripping handlebars, and then, to Fareeha, “She had better not have your taste in cars.”

That Angela hates Fareeha’s motorcycle is no secret, although she does not attempt to _stop_ Fareeha from using it, has only insisted that Fareeha have a car, as well, now that they have Izzah, and a sensible one, at that.  “What will you do if she does?” Fareeha asks, or tries to, is able to say it out loud but not sign as well, Izzah grabbing one of her arms and bringing it towards her mouth.

“No!” Angela signs, sharply, “No biting!” anticipating that Izzah, still teething, is about to attempt to use Fareeha’s hand for such.  Given that this would not be the first time she has done this to one of them, it is a fair assumption, but she simply pulls the arm in before pushing it out and away from her face, out of her field of view.

“I think,” Fareeha says, and Izzah pushes her hands out of the way again, “That she just wants to watch, and me talking is obstructing her view.”

A frown as Angela considers this, before she nods in agreement, “I don’t think I’d much like your hands suddenly waving in front of my face either.”

And, indeed, time seems to prove Fareeha right.  Izzah is at an age when many things are still new to her, and therefore of great interest, and she continues to watch the parade with a good deal of attention, pointing and making happy sounds at a variety of new objects.  Sometimes, she tries to name things she knows, and Angela has to correct her that no, not only are _dogs_ not cats, but _horses_ are not cats either, something which amuses the both of them greatly. 

(At least Izzah knows, now, that cats are animals.  She had a brief phase, a month ago, where _anything_ that excited her was called a cat.  This, Fareeha is certain, is somehow Ana’s doing.)

But as time goes on, Izzah kicks her legs more, and Angela seems slower to respond to her, less animated, and Fareeha suggests, tactfully as she can, that the two of them may want to head indoors for a bit, to let Izzah down.  This is not, of course, her only motivation, for she knows that Angela does not enjoy being in large crowds for long, and it will be best for all of them if they head in _before_ she is seriously bothered by the situation, but it is certainly a large one.  At just over a year old, Izzah has become very active, is constantly pulling herself up on things and trying to walk.  She has yet to really master the skill, only being able to take two or three steps at a time before falling down, but she is very enthusiastic about _trying_ , and if they keep her still and in one place for too long—such as this baby carrier—she will grow unhappy.

That they will let her free inside a building, and away from people, rather than on one of the small grassy areas near the parade route where things are still crowded, is not worth mentioning.  Both Angela and she know why it is that she is suggesting such, but Fareeha does not think it would be tactful to bring up.  If and when her wife is ready to have a serious conversation about the issue, or it begins to pose serious problems or distress their daughter, they will talk about as much, but for now, it is easy enough to accommodate Angela’s needs and not to press.

(And, Fareeha thinks, only fair.  There are things Angela has never asked of her, either, which would undoubtedly be difficult to discuss, or painful.  Over time, Fareeha has shared more and more of them of her own volition, and that is as it should be.  As long as they are both relatively happy, and healthy, there is no need to divulge certain things, and she worries, too, that forcing a disclosure would only make things worse.  So she will wait, and one day—one day they will discuss the matter.  For now, she suspects she knows the answer.)

Nearby is a small bookstore, one which Fareeha checked herself before ever suggesting they bring Izzah with them to Pride, already anticipating Angela’s potential objections—and there were several—which has a small, comfortable reading area in the back, clearly designed for small children.  Not as small, perhaps, as Izzah, but it is tucked out of view, and quiet, which suits Fareeha and Angela’s needs just fine.  As soon as she is unbuckled, she demands that Fareeha set her down, signing the word repeatedly, and Fareeha rolls her eyes and does just that.  The first time she caved to one of her daughter’s demands, she felt a bit ridiculous, losing a fight to a baby, but by now she knows that some things are worth arguing, and some are not, and if Izzah wants to walk on the carpeted floor barefoot, it will not hurt anyone, despite Angela’s usually vocal concerns about foot fungus and splinters.

For now, at least, Angela is not saying as much, is leaning against Fareeha and not speaking, breathing deeply and slowly in a way Fareeha recognizes as deliberate.

“You okay?” Fareeha asks, gently as possible, not wanting to make a bigger deal out of this than it is.  She knows that Angela has adjusted, now, to asking her to leave when need be, and if she needed to come inside sooner, they would have, trusts by now that she and her wife are able to rely on one another, when they need someone, and to ask for what they need.

(Sometimes, still, it is hard, and this last year, _parenting_ , has been quite the lesson in where their individual issues lie, the things that they cannot, or will not, say to each other, until past the point of reasonable concern.  They are learning, always, but things have been better, since they had a serious conversation five months ago, in terms of communication.  Parenting made their relationship more complicated, in some ways, introducing new issues and anxieties for both of them, new points of insecurity, as Fareeha suspects motherhood does for most people, but it has also strengthened their relationship, after the difficult first few months, because they realized it might have a negative impact on their daughter, and have tried all the more to overcome those issues.)

“Just fine,” Angela says, “Honestly.  If anything, I think the heat was bothering me the most.”

Shifting so that she can look at her wife more closely, Fareeha concludes that this is certainly the truth, because Angela is looking a bit more flushed than usual, and a tad sweaty.  Not that she thinks Angela would lie to her, of course—she never does, and is almost as bad a liar as Fareeha, besides—but still, Fareeha is always concerned.  When she was younger, Fareeha learned the hard way that sometimes, people cover up when they are struggling, in order to make the lives of others they care about easier, and so she tries, now, to always be one step ahead of the others in her life, to be as accommodating as possible.  It is the best apology she can give to her father.

(And Angela, of course, is just as attuned and attentive to her needs, only came here today, and in years previous, because Pride is something that is important to Fareeha, would otherwise have been perfectly happy to stay at home, and not to note the occasion at all.  Instead, she is here today, has even borrowed one of Fareeha’s shirts for the event, a button front with tiny printed rainbows, and allowed Fareeha to paint her face.  She is trying.  Both of them are.)

“Why don’t you go refill your water bottle,” Fareeha suggests.  “There’s a fountain near the restroom.  It could help.”

“Which one of us is the doctor?” Angela asks, but she is standing, even as she says it, leaving Fareeha alone on the child size beanbag as she dusts off her pants.  “I’ll be back soon.”

Unlike in previous years, Fareeha does not worry when Angela wanders off, knows that she is not using such to hide a panic attack or anything of the sort, is just fine, would say if that were not the case.  It does not hurt, certainly, that Fareeha has no _time_ to worry, given that Izzah is trying to pull herself up to walk by grabbing onto books on a shelf and Fareeha has to lunge across the small reading area to try and stop her. 

“No!” says she, “Not here.  Grab me to stand.” 

“No,” Izzah signs back, just as insistently, moves to grab a book anyway, succeeds only in pulling it down on herself and falling.  And _then_ she has the audacity to cry, as if it hurt her.

It did not, Fareeha knows, can recognize by now the difference between Izzah’s _startled_ crying and her _pained_ crying.  This is certainly the former, and she brought it on herself by not listening, so Fareeha allows herself to laugh, for just a moment, before squatting down and taking the book from Izzah, replacing it on the shelf and then wiping away her tears.  “You’re fine,” she tells her daughter.  “I know that didn’t hurt.”

A few more sniffles, and Izzah is, indeed, fine, again squirming to be out of Fareeha’s grip.  With a sigh, Fareeha lets her go, knows that she is probably only going to make the same mistake again.  This time, she stays right behind Izzah, ready to catch her when she inevitably starts to fall over—which she does, again and again and again.  Yes, Fareeha _could_ take out one of Izzah’s toys, because Angela packed several in the diaper bag, and she _could_ insist that Izzah not do this, carry her away from the shelf and back to the beanbag, but she knows, too, that Izzah is not going to actually hurt herself doing this, and that she will not learn if she is not allowed to make mistakes, sometimes.  It is not worth trying to fight her, if she is no danger.  When she is not in a calm mood, it is not easy to settle her down in one place—not for Fareeha, anyway.  Angela manages that much better.

(Both of them have their own strengths as parents, of course.  Angela is better at quieting Izzah down when she is too excited, or frustrated, and Fareeha is better at soothing her when she is scared, or in pain.  Together, they manage just fine.)

And, now that Fareeha is thinking of Angela, she wonders where her wife has gotten off to—it does not take too terribly long to fill a water bottle, surely.

Still, she does not worry like she might once have, amuses herself instead with Izzah’s antics, and answering her million questions, when Izzah decides she has had enough of exploring and wants, instead, to learn things again.  Fareeha is debating whether or not Izzah is pointing to the spine of the book, or the writing on such, when her daughter begins to sign “Mama!” excitedly, and she turns to see Angela has returned, looking decidedly less overheated than earlier. 

“Did you get lost?” asks she, making sure to angle her body so Izzah can see as she signs along with her words.

“There was a long line for the restroom,” says she, “And then I had to try and find an employee to ask if it would be alright if I nursed her.”

At this, Izzah perks up—Fareeha is not sure, yet, how much she understands, but _nurse_ is one of the words she knows on sight, and is quite enthusiastic about.  Fareeha herself gave up on breastfeeding months ago, was quite done with the inconvenience, and never particularly enjoyed it besides, but Angela has, and she cannot begrudge her wife bonding with their daughter in this way.

“Here?” Fareeha asks.  Izzah is down to nursing twice a day, and otherwise only eating solid foods; it would be easy enough not to do this.

Angela is already picking a—suddenly very willing—Izzah up and moving over the beanbag as she hums an affirmative, “She’s more likely to nap if I do.”

Well, Angela’s concerns about Izzah being overstimulated by the parade _might_ have been right, given how active she has been when she would normally be drowsy at this hour, so Fareeha supposes she cannot protest that.  “You might have a point.”

“I usually do,” Angela says, corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiles, “But you can go back out while I do this, if you’d like.  I don’t want you to miss—”

“No,” Fareeha says, “No, I’d rather be here, with the two of you,” and it is, of course, true.  Pride itself is very nice, but knowing she is here with her _family_ , a wife and a child of her own, is even nicer.  What she enjoyed most about her very first Pride was the feeling that her family accepted her, no matter what, and so it would hardly do to go running off on her own now, just because Izzah and Angela need some more time away from the crowd.  That is, after all, part of that acceptance, knowing that their limitations may be different from her own.

(And, in any case, at this point it usually only takes Izzah fifteen minutes at _most_ to be done nursing.  As she has gotten older, she has gotten far more efficient.)

For a few minutes, Fareeha and Angela converse with each other idly, until Izzah is apparently done with the first breast, and takes full advantage of Angela’s currently unbuttoned shirt to scoot _herself_ over and just grab the other, planting her face on the nipple.

Tapping her shoulder for attention, Fareeha immediately corrects her, “ _No_ , Izzah,” signs she, sternly as possible, “Ask before you touch!”

Izzah turns back to Angela, signs “Milk please,” and immediately reattaches before Angela can answer, which at least makes _her_ laugh.

“It isn’t funny,” Fareeha insists, “We need to teach her consent.”  It is always good to teach children such things early, Fareeha thinks, if only so that they can advocate for _themselves_.

“You’re right,” Angela agrees, “But maybe bodily autonomy can wait until we _aren’t_ having to constantly pick her up without her consent.  I don’t want more fighting at bedtime than we already have.”

Well, maybe Angela has a point, but “It’s never too early to start teaching her important lessons.”

“I know,” says Angela, shifting Izzah slightly in her lap, “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“I mean,” Fareeha says, “She’d know already that we’d support her if she was gay, obviously, and you being trans makes it pretty clear we’d both be okay with that too, but yeah, that was—”

Angela’s eyes narrow, “Why would she know that?”

This blindsides Fareeha.  She knows that Angela is closeted, for the most part, but, “She’s our daughter, Angela, why _wouldn’t_ she know?”

“I don’t see,” Angela says, one hand nervously playing with Izzah’s curls, “Why I’d _need_ to tell her.  I only told you because I thought that, given our relationship was long term, you were going to realize sooner or later.”

“But what if _she’s_ trans?” Fareeha asks, “It could save her a lot of heartache, if we let her know before then.”

“Then I’ll reconsider then,” Angela says, a little more strongly than she likely intends, because it jostles Izzah who protests, “Sorry,” this directed at their daughter, and then to Fareeha again, and aloud, but not signed, as if Izzah could possibly know what it is they are talking about, and understand, “But I think we can have a discussion about gender and pronouns with her when she is old enough to have exposure to them, and if we’re affirming of her choices from there, it should be more than sufficient.”

Perhaps Angela has a point, with the matter of pronouns, given that ASL, Izzah’s first language, has none that are gendered, but still, Fareeha remembers her own pain and confusion when she learned that her father was bi, years after she came out to him, and wondered why he never told her.  He did not owe her an explanation, of course, but she remembers thinking that he _hid_ it from her, that he was ashamed, on some level, and therefore must have felt the same way about Fareeha’s orientation.  Although she knows, now, that such was not his reason, she does not want Izzah to feel as hurt.

“I just don’t want her thinking that it’s some big secret,” Fareeha says.  “If she comes out, and _then_ you tell her, what message does that send?”

A deeper frown from her wife, who moves her shirt to cover more of herself, “It isn’t about a _message_ , Fareeha, it’s my life.  If I tell her, I’ll only be asking her to keep it a secret.  I don’t see how that would change anything.”

Now Fareeha frowns, too, because Angela is _right_ , and she cannot truly ask this of her wife, in any case.  They may be married, but Angela’s identity is her own, and this, too, is a part of accepting her—accepting that there are things she will never, ever be comfortable doing, no matter how much Fareeha wishes otherwise.  She will not press any further, having no other points to raise.  Either Angela will come around, or she will not.

“I’m sorry,” Fareeha says, because this was clearly more sensitive an issue than she anticipated, and this is hardly the place or time to have brought it up, even if it were not, “It’s your choice.  I only want her to know that we love her, and accept her.”

“She will know that, Fareeha,” Angela insists.  “I know you’ll make sure of it.  If it makes you feel better, I’ll _consider_ what to say to her, when she’s older, but I can’t promise anything.”

“That’s fine,” Fareeha says, and thinks it is more than, “Thinking about it is enough for me.  And anyway, we have time.  The only thing she needs from us right now is to let her nap.”

It is true.  During the span of their conversation, Izzah has finished nursing and is now rubbing at her eyes in a way that tells Fareeha that they need to put her to sleep _now,_ before she has a meltdown.

So she takes Izzah from Angela, starts rocking her back and forth, enjoys the fact that, for a little while longer, she remains small enough, still, to do this to.  As she does so, she sings a lullaby, softly.  Izzah cannot hear it, but she can feel the vibration of Fareeha’s chest as she sings, recognizes, at least, the melody, felt it when Fareeha sang to her when she was still in the womb.

Angela, having rebuttoned her shirt, puts her head on Fareeha’s shoulder, apparently as soothed by the singing as their daughter is.  Probably, she only intends to smile down at their daughter, to watch as her eyes drift closed, before they put Izzah in her stroller and head back outside, but by the time Fareeha has finished the song of a third time, Angela and Izzah are _both_ asleep on her.

Shifting Izzah to one of her arms only, careful to ensure that although her daughter stirs, she does not wake, Fareeha grabs her phone from the fanny pack at her waist with the other, pulls it up, snaps a picture of the three of them, her smiling with her dozing wife and daughter, and thinks, no, it is not the perfect smiling photo with her parents from her own first Pride, but it does not need to be.

Today does not have to be perfect, because Fareeha and Angela will _always_ be here for Izzah, both of them, and they will work hard to be certain that she knows, always, that they care for her, no matter what. 

Today does not need to be perfect because they have many such days.

Today does not need to be perfect because they will try just as hard to be the best possible parents to her tomorrow, and every day after it.

For now, this is more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> & there we have that
> 
> hopefully u enjoyed, lmk ur thoughts, hope ur day is good, etc
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> lmao i wrote this the weekend before last and little did i know that my usual in-crowd paranoia would be RIGHT for once and dc pride had an active shooter scare + crowd stampeding shenanigans put me in the er (im fine mostly. dislocated shoulder plus many bruises but NO CONCUSSION so thats what matters). so i guess maybe angela has points! crowds ARE dangerous
> 
> not really tho bc it IS an irrational worry and just sensory overload as a result of ptsd/generalized anxiety alskfjasldfa but u know. she will maybe never acknowledge that
> 
> but dw chapter two is fareehas first pride w her family + her first pride w angela as a family many, many yrs later and that ones... much more upbeat. bc theyre different ppl
> 
> anyway... fic title is from 1d's live while your young. YES i died thinking of a 1d lyric title for this
> 
> as always, comments are appreciated <3 hopefully yalls pride experiences go better than mine LMAO


End file.
